


Best Laid Plans

by Wrenlet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-14
Updated: 2006-12-14
Packaged: 2018-10-25 23:49:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10775052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrenlet/pseuds/Wrenlet
Summary: Written forundermistletoe's Harlequin AU week, based oh-so-loosely on the following prompt:Appearances can be... deadly! And this was a lesson Ash Kelly, explosives expert for Onyxxx, should have learned long ago. For though he's more than lived down his past -- as son of the world's most renowned drug lord -- he once again has to pretend to be in the business. All in a day's work.But he knows what his story is. Which leaves him with the question of Jazmin Grant. Who is this beautiful Frenchwoman, and who does she work for? And why, despite every indication that she works for the Chameleon, do sparks fly every time they're together?Well, he is an explosives expert, after all....





	Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

> Everlasting gratitude to [](http://tsuki-no-bara.livejournal.com/profile)[tsuki_no_bara](http://tsuki-no-bara.livejournal.com/) for ~~putting up with my whiny crap all the time~~ audiencing.

Sam tilts the laptop screen again and settles back into his chair. Miranda's late, she  knows how much he hates it when she's late but there's nothing he can do about it but sit and wait for her to connect.  
  
So far this job has demanded, surprisingly, even more waiting than usual and not the kind with the happy bang at the end. Wait for his new "operation" to be noticed, wait for the bit players to yank his chain a little, wait and wait some more for anybody with real pull to contact him.  
  
Wait for Miranda to get off her ass and conference him in.  
  
Sam doesn't remember his father having to wait around like this, but maybe he hired people to handle that for him. Or, maybe by the time you're running a major worldwide drug operation, you get to make other people wait around for you.  
  
The icon on his task bar flashes, and he clicks it to open up a window. Miranda looks freshly-coiffed and slightly bored, as always, like contacting a field agent is somehow beneath her. Sam tips his head to the side and drawls, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"  
  
"Your continued lack of progress." She smiles, and Sam fights the urge to grind his teeth. "Nothing new to report, I assume?"  
  
"These things take patience. I have my feelers out."  
  
"Yes, well." Miranda fingers the pages on her desk, below the camera's line-of-sight, like a more professional version of filing her nails at him. "The director is less than pleased. If your feelers don't produce results soon, in the form of solid contact, we may have to reassess the advantage of your--"  
  
Sam mouths along with her, not normally a risk he'd take except she isn't even looking at him, 'unique qualifications.' As if being the adopted son of Bradon Halstead gave him anything but the fanciest private school education tainted money could buy and the crushing load of guilt to go with it.  
  
He fucking hates this mission.  
  
"I know all this, Miranda. Get into Rhiaz's good graces, identify the Chameleon, then maybe we'll know how he's managed to peg every planned bust for the last three months."  
  
Miranda smiles again, lips thinned, no teeth. "I know this isn't your usual assignment and thought perhaps you needed a reminder of the stakes. No pretty booms, Sam, only good men's lives on the line."  
  
"So noted. Anything else?"  
  
"Just stay in touch."  
  
"Will do." He waits for Miranda to close the connection on her end, then jabs at the keyboard to do the same. He knows how important this is, where the hell does she get off treating him like a probie? He misses Chad, suddenly, but this isn't Sam's usual arena and that means a different command structure, different supervisors, and a handler he can't fucking stand. God help him if anything goes wrong and he has to depend on Miranda to pull his ass out of the fire.  
  
\--  
  
When it finally happens, everything comes together so easily it almost scares him. The invitation had arrived by courier and it was exactly that, embossed and stamped with a wax seal, "We request the favor of a reply." Sam sips his gin and sour as he scans the room, and he can't quite shake the feeling he's been summoned to the dinner party from hell.  
  
A good half of the faces are familiar to him, from file photos or surveillance video, and another handful he recognizes as acquaintances of his father. Former acquaintances, rather, and it still twinges a little more than he expects it to even a year after Halstead's death.  
  
The room is starting to fill with later arrivals, and Sam snags a canape from a passing tray and follows the carrier around the edge of the crowd. The few he can't put names to look mostly like mid-level players. He guesses it's a little much to hope for anyone to walk in with a handy "Chameleon" nametag on his lapel; his luck is running pretty hot but nobody's is that good.  
  
Sam figures it will be at least another hour before Rhiaz makes an appearance, and he occupies himself tracking the factions in the organization by the crowd movements, who does and doesn't speak to whom. It's the kind of thing his father used to expect of him, before he gave up on the notion of grooming Sam to take over for him one day and stopped shanghaiing him into appearing at functions much like this one. By the time he's made a full circuit of the room Sam has identified at least two brewing turf wars, and he's wondering idly whether Rhiaz has any clue when his circle brings him back around to face the door, and his stomach takes an abrupt sideways lurch.  
  
Instinct keeps him moving, drifting casually through the crowd, his face a mask of studied indifference even as he sweats into his overstarched shirt. This is bad, on a level that he'd consider calling the entire mission off if it wouldn't mean explaining a whole assload of things Sam just doesn't want to get into.  
  
Like that he knows who his birth-father is. And that he has a brother. And what they do for a living, or rather, "did," because Dean has apparently given up ghostbusting to play hired muscle to-- Sam doesn't recognize the woman, which isn't all that odd except the sight of her makes the hair stand up along the back of his neck.  
  
Or maybe that's just Dean.  
  
Christ, this is fucked up. Still salvageable, maybe; it's too much to ask that Dean somehow not recognize him, despite... everything, but Sam thinks he can at least count on a little discretion. Dean has to have spotted him by now, from the glimpse Sam got he appears to be taking his new job as seriously as he did the old one, and God knows he'd been really fucking serious when he had tried to convince Sam to come away with him.  
  
Sam lets the crowd flow naturally turn him to face the newcomers again. Dean's gaze passes over him and away with hardly a pause, and Sam feels the tightness in his chest ease just a bit. One hurdle down, but who the hell is he shadowing? Not only does Sam not recognize the slight blonde woman, she doesn't seem to... fit, not with the room full of scheming dealers, not with what Sam knows of Rhiaz, and certainly not with Dean. She takes the lay of the room as thoroughly as any of her guards, and it occurs to Sam that maybe this is who he's been sent to identify.  
  
Maybe she is the Chameleon.  
  
If she is-- hell, even if she isn't, Sam has to find out why Dean is here with her, if he even knows what he's gotten himself mixed up in. He swirls his drink in its glass, neglected and watery, and cuts through the crowd towards the bar.  
  
\--  
  
"Start talking." Sam doesn't know what pretense Dean used to slip away but he's pretty damn certain they don't have much in the way of time. So when Dean silently crosses his arms and raises that eyebrow in response, Sam's first urge is to grab him and shake an answer out of him, but he knows well enough that Dean can probably still knock him on his ass, or knock him around a hell of a lot more than he can afford right now, so he grits his teeth and tries again. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Following in your daddy's footsteps after all, huh?"  
  
"Given up on yours?"  
  
Dean stiffens and steps up into Sam's space, almost... Christ, almost like he's trying not to hit him. "Dad's dead. Try again."  
  
Oh, fuck. It has to be a coincidence, right? And he can't even stop to deal with this right now, with Rhiaz's dinner party in full swing not two doors away.  
  
"Dean, there isn't time for this." Not nearly time enough for what Sam ought to say, or thinks he might have tried to under other circumstances.  
  
Dean nods once, sharply, and eases back on his heels. "You're not really back in the business, are you."  
  
The lie is right on the tip of his tongue, all his training urging him to say it, protect his cover, protect the mission above all else. "No. It's... complicated, but no."  
  
Dean's jaw softens and the corners of his eyes crinkle. "Didn't think so. You're what, DEA now? Nah," he puts his hand up, palm out. "Don't tell me. You're here 'cause this guy is too good at avoiding the cops."  
  
"Basically, yeah."  
  
"Only you don't know how. And that's why I'm here."  
  
Sam shakes his head, disbelieving. "Dean, this isn't-- I don't think Rhiaz has a poltergeist, this isn't your line. It's--"  
  
"Out of my league?" Dean looks pissed again, and more than that: disappointed. "You have no idea."  
  
"I just don't see what this could possibly have to do with chasing ghosts."  
  
"It's magic, Sam. Black magic, judging from the mess it's stirring up."  
  
"That's...." He can't even wrap his head around it. Ghosts and the like he'll grudgingly acknowledge, given that Dean had gone to the trouble of dragging him into a full-out haunting to prove his point. But this is... no. "Crazy. There's no way. He's got his hooks into someone on the inside, I just have to find out who. It's not magic."  
  
Now Dean's the one shaking his head. "I should've known you wouldn't listen. You know what? Forget it, forget you even saw me here. You can play your little reindeer games, pretend you don't know any better, whatever you want as long as you stay out of my way. Got it?"  
  
"Out of your way? You can't just--" Dean's eyes dart to the side, and right as Sam registers the footsteps in the hallway Dean claps a hand over his mouth, shoves him into the nook between the standing bookshelves and the wall, and presses full-length against him.  
  
Sam's hands come up to grasp Dean's arms -- reflex, God, it's just a reflex -- and pull him in close. They can't have been missed yet, this is just... some random fucking thing, because clearly Sam has the worst luck in the world. He shuts his eyes, and he can tell himself all he wants that it's to hear the noises in the hallway more clearly but the truth is that he can't trust himself to look at Dean right now. Not with him here, like this, and it's for all the same reasons that Sam doesn't talk about his brother and the spring that Dean found Sam at boarding school.  
  
Dean tenses from head to toe and then just stands there, like it doesn't even matter that Sam's manhandling him. That Sam's getting hard against Dean's hip and damn it, he is not going to feel guilty about this. Not.  
  
It's like being seventeen all over again, full of piss and vinegar and that peculiar sense of betrayal common to the young and disillusioned. Sam never told Dean this, but his first reaction to the notion he'd been adopted was that it was too easy, too convenient for him to not be related to the man he'd finally learned the truth about. Sam had fucked Dean -- seduced him, to be honest -- half out of some perverse urge to prove Dean was wrong and half in anger that even if he was right, he was too damned late.  
  
But Sam's dick doesn't care why he did it or that Dean was pissed when he left Sam at the school and probably still is, it just cares that Dean is right here, like this, and God damn he looks hot in a tailored suit. It doesn't even care how thoroughly dead they'll be if they're discovered; luckily, Dean's still caring enough about that for the both of them.  
  
"They're gone."  
  
If Dean's a little quick to pull his hand from Sam's mouth and step back out of his reach, Sam can hardly blame him for it. Sam tugs at his jacket in a futile attempt to straighten the line of his suit. "We need to get back."  
  
Dean nods and rubs at the back of his neck, looking slightly to the left instead of meeting Sam's eyes. "Listen, this is seriously heavy shit, Sam, if you get in over-- if you need anything, you call. Still got my number?"  
  
"Yeah, I've got it." And he does, though why he's kept it for all these years, he couldn't say.  
  
Dean nods again and moves for the door; Sam will give him a bit of a lead, loop back through the front foyer so it doesn't look like, well, what it is. He's already picturing the route in his mind and the embarrassed excuses he'll make to his tablemates, which is why he doesn't notice that Dean has turned back to face him until he's there, sliding his hand around the back of Sam's neck and tugging him down to kiss him. Sam's mouth opens before the rest of him even catches on, it's hard and fast and so fucking hot that when Dean breaks off, all Sam can do is gape at him.  
  
Dean swipes his thumb across Sam's lower lip and pulls away again. "Watch your back." He doesn't wait for an answer, and he's gone before Sam can even manage to close his mouth.  
  
\--  
  
The rest of the dinner party passes in a surreal blur. Nobody much remarks on his absence, Dean appears to have taken his place at the blonde woman's elbow without issue, and Sam is honestly having a hard time keeping his mind on his mission. He picks up what he can from ambient conversation, which he doesn't expect to amount to much; the dinner itself is purely for appearance's sake, if Rhiaz is doing business tonight it'll be later, in his study.  
  
A tiny cream-colored envelope arrives with Sam's dessert, and he knows before he cracks the seal that it's the invitation he's been waiting for, the one they need. Miranda will be pleased, he thinks, and a peal of laughter draws his attention to the far end of the table where the blonde is seated. Dean's gaze is fixed on the far wall, but the woman... she tilts her head towards Sam, meeting his glance clear down the length of the table. She blinks, and for a moment -- Sam would think he's lost his mind, except for Dean \-- her eyes are completely, utterly black. She blinks again, smiles at him, and turns back to her conversation.  
  
One of the servers leans into his line of sight to refill his glass and it's like, fuck, breaking a spell. Sam looks down at the card he's crumpled in his hand and knows two things: one, Dean was right. Two, he has no fucking clue how to explain this to Miranda.  
  
\--  
  
"I'm just saying," Sam pauses for a calming breath, not that it does him any good. "Maybe there's more going on here than we realize."  
  
Miranda narrows her eyes and he could swear, video conference be damned, the temperature in the room drops three degrees when she speaks again. "Onyxxx has devoted its top intelligence resources to this operation, I highly doubt they've missed anything. You've identified the Chameleon as Meg Masters, you've confirmed she'll be present for your next meeting with Rhiaz. I don't see what the problem is... unless the problem is you." She smiles that thin-lipped smile again, the one he's learning to hate. "Are you attracted to her, Sam?"  
  
Too close to the mark, and way the fuck off all at the same time. "Don't be-- no. But we haven't connected her to law enforcement in any way, how can she be the one disrupting ops?"  
  
"We'll find out when we have her in custody, I'm sure. All the intel we have points to the Chameleon as the source, Rhiaz is relying on her for information. Where that information comes from is secondary."  
  
Sam shakes his head. From what Dean told him the op is likely doomed before it even starts, but there's no way to convince Miranda of that and no way in hell to keep it from going forward. It's Hamburg all over again, only this time without Chad to back him up when it all goes to shit. This time, his handler is likely to just leave him to twist... so Sam needs another plan. He needs Dean. And maybe a little extra insurance on the side.  
  
"Fine."  
  
"Thursday it is, then. I think a standard extraction team will be sufficient, don't you?"  
  
"Whatever you say, Miranda." Sam knows she thinks she's counted coup on him somehow, like they aren't on the same damn side, but he can't be bothered to care all that much. He's already thinking ahead to the calls he needs to make, supplies to gather, though he isn't particularly looking forward to the taste of crow.  
  
\--  
  
The apartment is mostly bare, but it's still a step up from the motel room Dean had stayed in when he came to find Sam at school. Two rooms, the kind of cheap, durable furniture that comes to mind with the phrase "fully furnished," and nothing else that can't be shoved in a duffel on a moment's notice.  
  
"Okay, tell me again." Dean doesn't look up from the barrel of the shotgun he's swabbing out. He's got that gun and a half-dozen others stripped and spread on a drop cloth across the coffee table, well-kept to Sam's eye.  
  
"Could you maybe stop for a second?"  
  
"Helps me concentrate. Spill."  
  
Sam sighs and settles back into his chair. "Meg looked down the table at me and her eyes went black."  
  
"Completely?"  
  
"Lid to lid. What the hell was that?"  
  
"Nothing good." Dean sets the barrel down, finally looking up at Sam. "Maybe it's time you told me who you really work for."  
  
Sam has known this was coming and he knows he owes Dean the truth, especially if he expects Dean's help. It still doesn't make it any easier to say, not with Dean watching him like that. "I... work in counterinsurgency, mostly."  
  
"Military?"  
  
"Private contractor."  
  
Dean nods and crosses his arms. "Mercenaries."  
  
"Yeah, I guess you could call it that." It's not the term Sam would use or particularly likes, but some days it really fucking fits.  
  
"So what's their beef with Rhiaz?"  
  
"Funneling laundered cash to South American paramilitaries. Yours?"  
  
"Human sacrifice to keep you guys out of his operation."  
  
"... holy shit. You're serious."  
  
"As a heart attack. Meg's been teaching him black arts -- that's what I pegged her for, anyway -- so I got myself into her security detail. Do they--" Dean drops his eyes to the table again and starts reassembling one of the pistols. "Your employers, they know about your dad."  
  
Sam sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, it's why they gave me the assignment. I'm usually in demolitions."  
  
"Do they know about your real father?" Dean's voice is so even it's practically toneless, but Sam feels it like a knot twisting in his chest all the same.  
  
"No. I never told anyone."  
  
"That's good." Dean reaches for a piece that isn't there, that's already on the gun where it belongs, and rubs his hand down his thigh instead. "Fewer people who can connect us, less chance of your cover being blown."  
  
"I didn't know how. Where to even start." He doesn't know how to ask what happened to John, either, or whether Dean would even tell him. "So what does it mean, the thing with Meg's eyes?"  
  
"Could be a couple of things. Possession's the most likely, though why a demon would be bothering with this kind of crap is beyond me."  
  
Sam turns that over in his head, vaguely unnerved by how much sense it makes, how easy it is to make the logical connections between what Dean's telling him and what they'll probably need to do. Dean, for his part, is back in his own groove, setting gun after gun down whole on the cloth. "It'll take an exorcism, yeah? If you're right about Meg."  
  
"How's your Latin?"  
  
"Sucks. So that's all on you."  
  
Dean pulls a face and snaps the shotgun together. "Fantastic. Listen, if you'd rather I can take a crack at Meg beforehand, leave the field open for your guys to do... whatever they're going to do."  
  
"No," Sam can't put his finger on why, but that's a terrible idea. "I think we're better off sticking together. Crappy Latin and all."  
  
"Backing each other up." Dean gives him a long look. "Yeah, we can do that. You keep your side from shooting at me, and I'll handle Meg."  
  
"Sounds like a plan."  
  
Dean is still watching him, elbows resting on his knees. The silence stretches out between them and Sam feels, absurdly, like he's about to blush. Dean kissed him, and Sam doesn't know what that means. He needs to know.  
  
He has to ask. "Dean--"  
  
Dean's off the couch like a shot, turning and heading into the other room. "Hang on. You'll need... just stay there."  
  
Oh, like hell. Sam knows avoidance when he sees it, and he's already in the doorway by the time Dean straightens from digging in one of the duffels, holding something on a worn leather cord. "Dean, we should--"  
  
"Take this." Sam half expects a crucifix, so the quarter-sized disc is something of a surprise. "Best I can do on short notice. Better than nothing, anyway."  
  
Sam rubs at the engraved metal, lets his thumbnail catch on symbols he doesn't fully understand. "Look, I really--" And when he looks up again Dean is there, smelling of gun oil and something sharp, faintly herbal. The question dies off in his throat, this close, so close he can see the moment Dean's pupils dilate and really, does it matter who moves first?  
  
What matters is Dean licking his way into Sam's mouth, the ebb and sway of the kiss, how that's the only place they touch, connected at the lips, until Sam shoves Dean back against the closet door and breathes in his gasp. Dean grinds his dick on Sam's thigh and shit, this is messed up and Sam can't bring himself to care. Of all the things Sam has to atone for, whoever's watching can just add this to the fucking list.  
  
Dean's kisses are pure sex, heady and consuming, and it takes his fingers on Sam's belt to remind Sam they don't have to pull away this time. Sam lets go of Dean's shoulders, the amulet sliding out of his fingers and thumping softly onto the carpet as he knocks Dean's hand away and takes over, because this is what part of him has been craving from the moment he saw Dean at that damn reception. It's a simple series of steps, like detonator to timer to trigger, and when his fingers close around Dean's cock Dean makes a sound that almost, almost sends Sam crashing over the edge.  
  
Sam needs to see this, he rests his forehead on Dean's shoulder and watches himself stroke Dean's cock, pull his own dick out and line them up together. Dean grips the back of Sam's neck and wraps his other hand around Sam's, squeezing and speeding them up. Sam wouldn't, he wants to make this last but Dean is relentless and it's really... fucking working for Sam.  
  
Working for Dean, too, by the harsh noise of his breathing and the muttered string of curses when they come. It's fast and dirty, everything a fuck against the wall is supposed to be but for the way Dean pets his hair after and won't let him go.  
  
"The only thing I ever kept from Dad was that I'd found you."  
  
Dean breathes it into his ear like a confession, which Sam supposes is how he means it. He doesn't know how to react but Dean doesn't seem to expect anything from him, just presses his face to Sam's temple and sets him upright again, starts fussing with Sam's clothes like Sam doesn't know how to dress himself.  
  
"Dean."  
  
Dean tucks himself back into his jeans and scoops the necklace off the floor. "You should go. We can talk this to death later, yeah?"  
  
Sam takes a deep breath. Dean's right, there's a shitload to do and too little time to do it. "Only if you promise."  
  
"Promise what?" Dean reaches around and ties the cord behind Sam's neck, tugs out the collar of Sam's shirt to let the medallion fall in next to his skin. It's oddly touching.  
  
"Promise me later."  
  
Dean just looks at him for a long moment, nods once and taps Sam's chest, directly over the amulet. "Yeah, you too."  
  
\--  
  
The warehouse is in better shape than Sam expects, especially considering the state of its basement. He showered twice afterward and still he feels like he smells vaguely of sewage, has to resist the urge to sniff himself the same way he doesn't fiddle with his cufflinks or touch his ear.  
  
The earpiece gives him quiet updates on the progress of the extraction team, murmurs of threats neutralized, entrances secured and agents in position. By contrast Rhiaz can't seem to get to the point, any point. He's been talking circles for the last twenty minutes; Sam could be grateful for the break, the chance to do little more than nod and smile and wait to give Dean his cue, except for the fact it's seriously grating on his nerves.  
  
Dean, for his part, looks ready to go. Meg's personal security detail fanned out when she arrived and Dean took up a position practically flanking Sam; not the most subtle move, but it isn't as if their covers will be anything but blown after this little shindig.  
  
"Delta five, check."  
  
That's it. All he needs is confirmation from the team leader and he can give Dean the go ahead. Explaining afterward why Sam felt the need to exorcise Meg before they brought her in... fuck it, he'll burn that bridge when he gets there.  
  
"I think that's about enough, don't you?" Meg steps forward and as soon as she speaks Rhiaz just stops, like he's been marking time as much as the rest of them.  
  
Sam is getting a bad, bad feeling and it only gets worse when Meg smiles. Dean has edged closer, a solid presence just to his left and this is Sam's usual pre-mission clarity times about ten, he knows exactly where Dean is. Meg doesn't miss the movement, either, tilting her head to favor Dean with the same toothy grin.  
  
"The Winchester boys together at last... if your daddy could only see you now."  
  
Dean hisses something Sam can't make out over the sudden squeal of static from his earpiece, Sam grabs for his arm and holds him back on sheer instinct. Meg reaches into the front of her jacket, Sam's chest flares with coldfuckcold and then everything goes to hell, all at once.  
  
The screaming is what he'll remember most later, screams and panicked gunfire and shadows that fucking move. Something knocks Dean out of Sam's grip, his whole field of vision fills with black and phantom claws rake down the side of his face and neck. He swings and there's nothing, nothing to hit or grab, or block when it goes for his ribs. This is so fucked, worse than anything he could have imagined and his contingency plan won't do a bit of good if this static blocks the signal to his detonator.  
  
"Sam!"  
  
The things are everywhere, whatever the hell they are, and the Onyxxx team doesn't stand a chance. The next hit knocks Sam off his feet and he lands right on top of a body in full covert gear; one of the agents, throat ripped clean out and why the hell aren't they--  
  
"Where the fuck are you? Sam!!"  
  
"Here!" Dean isn't that far away but he's wiping blood out of his eyes and he frankly looks like hell. They have got to get out, both of them; screw Meg and Onyxxx and everything else, if they can't clear the building somehow in the next ten minutes, they won't make it at all. That means finding a path or making one, and the warehouse is so wrapped in shadows the creatures seem to have free reign.  
  
Dean gets within arm's reach and Sam's got it, or he thinks he does. He drags Dean close enough to yell into his ear, "Shut your eyes, I'm gonna light the place up!" One flash-grenade, hanging unused on the dead agent's jacket and if that's not enough, something -- God or luck, Sam isn't going to argue about it -- finally turns their way and the static in his earpiece clears.  
  
Sam yanks out the pin, pulls the lapel of his jacket up partially over his face, and rolls the grenade toward the nearest exit. The initial flare sends the creatures shrieking to the other side of the warehouse and shows him... hell, a charnel house in the making. Rhiaz and Meg have vanished, and judging from the carnage they left their guards behind to die with the rest. Sam hauls Dean to his feet and they break for the loading dock, ten more yards, five.  
  
"Just keep going." He gets his arm up under Dean's shoulders and just as they clear the doors Sam snaps the switch hidden in his cufflink.  
  
Normally this would be his favorite part of the job, watching his carefully-laid charges do their thing. He's a bit too busy running to look, but he can picture the sequence in his head same as when he crawled through the basement to set them; support columns, load-bearing structures, finally the exterior walls giving way and folding in on themselves with an odd sort of grace.  
  
Sam loves his work, but this is the first time it's made a tomb for his own people.  
  
They stagger to a halt about a block away, Sam can already hear sirens wailing in the distance. Dean's face is a complete mess, the cuts on his forehead won't stop bleeding down into his eyes and he's trying to hide at least one more set of claw marks under his jacket, probably more. Sam feels like ten miles of bad road himself but he's still mobile, they both are, and that's something.  
  
"What the fuck were those things?"  
  
"Don't know. Did you see Meg?"  
  
"No, I think she booked it. What the hell, Dean?"  
  
"I don't know, okay? This isn't-- I can't-- fuck." Dean aims a savage kick at the dumpster and Sam slides down the wall, cradling his head. "You can't go back."  
  
"I know." Sam knew that much as soon as he blew the charges; he has no way to explain what happened inside that warehouse, nothing Miranda or any of their superiors will believe, and wiring the building was completely outside his mission parameters. As far as Onyxxx knows -- based on the available evidence -- Sam went rogue and ambushed his own team.  
  
So much for his pension.  
  
"C'mon." Dean is standing in front of him with his hand out. "You look like shit."  
  
"Likewise." Sam takes his hand, lets Dean help him up and doesn't mention the way Dean staggers under the added weight. "I guess, uhm..." 'I guess you're stuck with me,' is what he's trying to say but he can't quite get the words out.  
  
"Could use your help. Meg's still out there, somewhere, and God knows somebody needs to take that bitch down a peg. Might as well be us." Dean's doing that thing again where he won't look Sam in the eye, but he's right, and it's the best offer on the table.  
  
"She knows who we are, Dean."  
  
"Yeah, well." Dean starts down the alley and Sam falls into step beside him. "Next time maybe we'll tie her ass to a chair and you can ask her whatever you want. Sound good?"  
  
They'll have to find her again first, which is no small thing and involves Sam rearranging the pieces of his former life in ways that don't bear thinking about right now. Right now, they're too beat to hell to do anything but hole up and recuperate, and all Sam can do is follow Dean and trust he knows what he's doing.  
  
"Sounds like a plan."


End file.
